


Soothe your mind

by killerweasel



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-18
Updated: 2012-11-18
Packaged: 2017-11-19 00:50:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/567183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killerweasel/pseuds/killerweasel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even Mycroft can be overwhelmed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soothe your mind

Title: Soothe your mind  
Fandom: _Sherlock_  
Characters: Mycroft Holmes, John Watson  
Word Count: 1,205  
Rating: PG-13  
A/N: AU after _The Reichenbach Fall_

 

**It won’t stop, Sherlock. – MH**

_Go see John. He knows what to do. – SH_

If Mycroft could think straight without the fear his head would explode from the sheer volume of thoughts currently running on overdrive, he might have taken the time to ponder the consequences of what might happen when he saw John Watson. He stumbled up the steps to the door of 221B, using his left hand to support himself on the wall. His personal assistant had wanted to come with him, he’d seen the worry on her face, but he’d waved her off, saying he would contact her when he was ready to be picked up.

In the past, he had never let any of his subordinates see him like this. It had also never been this bad before. While they might think it was the result of grief over his ‘dead’ brother, it would still be a weakness. He couldn’t afford to show any amount of weakness, show that he was just as human as they were. Moriarty wasn’t the only one who called him ‘The Iceman’.

It took Mycroft five tries to get the key into the lock. The more he struggled with it, the more he thought he’d drop the key. If he dropped it, he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to bend down to pick it up again. He must have made more noise than he intended because John was standing in the middle of the living room in his pajamas rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

Mycroft wanted to say something, wanted to apologize for waking him at three in the morning, but the words wouldn’t come. He saw something cross John’s face. It was there and gone so quickly a normal person might not have noticed it at all. Mycroft slumped back against the door, clutching his temples with both hands. It was too much. He should have come sooner. He should have...

Strong hands were suddenly supporting him and helping him move through the flat over to the couch. Mycroft kept his eyes closed. Sometimes the darkness helped cut down on added information. He could hear John moving quietly around the room, turning out most of the lights.

Mycroft heard John murmur something as he came back over to the couch. He didn’t quite catch what it was, but the tone sounded concerned. John carefully removed Mycroft’s shoes and then helped him remove his jacket. Mycroft continued to keep his eyes closed. While the pressure inside of his skull wasn’t as horrible as it had been a few minutes earlier, it wasn’t very pleasant either.

Despite still wearing the majority of his clothing, Mycroft felt vulnerable and exposed. He heard the couch creak as John sat down next to him. Taking a deep breath to try and calm down, Mycroft carefully eased his body sideways until his head was on John’s thigh and his feet were resting on the arm of the couch. He could feel his body trembling. He wasn’t sure if it was due to his head or because he was allowing John to see him like this.

John’s fingers began to slowly card through Mycroft’s hair. Mycroft sighed. He focused on the feel of John’s fingers against his scalp rather than the uprising in Columbia, the threat of war in various parts of the world, political scandals in France, terrorist attacks in the Middle East, and the fact that his brother had almost died for real taking on one of Moriarty’s operatives in Switzerland a few hours earlier. The last had been the straw that broke the camel’s back. He never wanted to get another text from Sherlock that said _Bit not good, losing too much blood. – SH_ followed by an address.

A shudder went through Mycroft’s frame. After all the careful planning and plotting, helping Sherlock ruin his own career, helping him shatter the lives of his friends, and making the world think the consulting detective was dead, Mycroft was not going to lose him to some minion’s knife. He knew there was only so much help he could give (and only so much help Sherlock would take) without exposing his brother to the enemy. None of this would have happened if Mycroft had just killed Moriarty in the first place.

Sherlock had asked him not to. He’d actually asked nicely instead of yelling and having a temper tantrum like a small child. Sherlock had wanted to prove he was better than the madman he was up against and Mycroft had indulged him, not knowing how quickly it would all spin out of control.

John continued to stroke Mycroft’s hair with one hand as his other settled between Mycroft’s shoulder blades. It began to make lazy circles with just the right amount of pressure. Mycroft could finally feel his body start to relax and knew his mind would soon follow.

When John began to hum, Mycroft’s eyes popped open. He recognized the tune. It was a song Mummy used to sing whenever one of them was sick or had a nightmare. She would hold them close and repeat the song until they fell asleep. There was a hint of a smile on Mycroft’s face as he let his eyes close again. It wasn’t long before he drifted off to sleep.

John continued what he was doing, repeating the song a second time until he was certain Mycroft was asleep. He carefully leaned back, making sure not to disturb his slumbering guest. He hadn’t seen Mycroft since Sherlock’s funeral a month earlier. Words had been exchanged, some of which he regretted. When he’d found Mycroft in the flat, two things had popped into his head: Mycroft suffered from the same overloads Sherlock occasionally had and Sherlock was alive. That was the only possible way Mycroft knew to come see John for help.

He wasn’t sure how he felt about the latter. Part of him was absolutely furious as he’d been grieving and mourning for the last month. His best friend had thrown himself from the roof of a building while he watched and John hadn’t been able to stop him. He was also angry at Mycroft for keeping it from him.

Sherlock always had a reason for doing something, even if that reason made no sense to anyone but himself. If he’d enlisted his brother to help him fake his death, a person whose help he turned down on a regular basis, there must not have been any other choice. For whatever reason, the world needed to think Sherlock Holmes was dead.

A knot of dread formed in John’s stomach as he thought about why Mycroft had ended up in the flat in the wee hours of the morning. It would have been something more than the ‘British Government’ handled on a regular basis. The only logical conclusion John could come up with was something had happened to Sherlock.

John sighed. Maybe he’d ask Mycroft about it in the morning. Even if he didn’t, the elder Holmes would certainly figure out what John had deduced. If John had to pretend he didn’t know Sherlock was alive, he would do it. John closed his eyes. At least he knew the truth now.


End file.
